Where DB takes a break from “Aladdin Sane” guise to cover Brit nuggets of the mod era, but not just. To such a facetious, rapt dabbler — who, like his knowing, idolatrous rebel-doll cult, fetishizes the post-Warhol novelty — pastiche is personal: He has always been his own peculiar brand of committed detachment, his own curious concept of curiosity. Thus, in the highly mediated, disposable universe, no trifle is a mere throwaway. Rather, the pin-up’s put-on becomes a pin-up itself. So, as Bowie the actor ‘camps’ otherwise staid and glam-fast efforts, it’s the album’s self-evident waxworks premise that charms. In the markedly outsourced, gaping allowance for role-play and obeisant caricature, PinUps is the culmination of Bowie’s basic artifice.